


The Ultimate Sacrifice

by meyghasa



Category: Dragon Age Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-27
Updated: 2011-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-26 14:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meyghasa/pseuds/meyghasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Syleris makes the ultimate sacrifice. Warning: SO SPOILERIFIC. If you don't want the end of Dragon Age: Origins revealed, don't read! You've been warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ultimate Sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

> Most of Alisair's dialogue is copied verbatim from the game so that belongs to Bioware.

The air was heavy with the sickly smell of tainted darkspawn blood. Syleris was covered in gore, her brown leather armor stained crimson and black. Her short hair hung in bloody clumps and framed a face that was faring no better. Occasionally she stopped, rubbing her face against the bare spot just above her forearm to try to clear her vision of grit and sweat and blood. Sometimes it even helped.

The stone floor was littered with the bodies of darkspawn and soldiers alike. She picked her way easily with elfish grace, leather-clad feet barely making a sound as she danced forward. Alistair fared worse; she almost wanted to laugh as she heard him lumbering and clanking among the fallen, occasionally swearing under his breath. Her sharp vision caught Zevran mirroring her mincing steps to her right, and she assumed Wynne would be following in Alistair’s wake.  
A searing pain across her forehead alerted her that another wave of darkspawn was close. She vaguely wondered if the sensation would ever become commonplace as she dropped into a battle-ready crouch with her daggers poised to strike.

"Great, more darkspawn," Alistair groaned with melodramatic overture as he muscled his way past her. Her witty retort died on her tongue as a door opened and a flood of the hideous creatures poured forth.

Perhaps the situation should have made her nervous, anxious. What she instead felt was the thrill of battle, the alluring taste of victory hanging on the horizon, the knowledge that she was here because she was chosen. Possibly she was not always so reconciled with her fate. Sometimes Shianni’s face, wet with tears as she clutched at her ripped dress, haunted her mind. Sometimes the face of the Bann’s son kept her awake at night and brought bile to her mouth. But not today. Today, she was Syleris the Grey Warden, hero of Ferelden. She would honor that title.

The four of them moved in perfect concert. Alistair kept their attention with his shield and axe swinging in unison as Syleris and Zevran danced in and out of the fray, flanking their enemies and driving their daggers home again and again. Wynne stood a little back, her hands and staff flailing madly as she cast spell after spell with a look of intense concentration.

Soon, the room was devoid of anything but themselves and the corpses of the darkspawn. They entered the room as a unit and Alistair gestured to the flight of stairs at the end of the hall. All of them knew what lay beyond; they could hear the howling and roaring of the archdemon even now. Glances passed between the group. Zevran gave Syleris a saucy wink which would have made her laugh had they not been approaching their possible deaths. Alistair muttered something under his breath that sounded to Syleris like, “Here goes nothing,” before they all ran up the stairs and burst upon the rooftop.

The dreams had not prepared her for the sight of the archdemon in the flesh. They paused, huddled in the doorway, and watched as the huge dragon clamped its jaws around a soldier and chewed. The crack of bone echoed across the rooftop, punctuated only by the horrified cries of the victim’s fellow soldiers. A huge claw crushed another man as the dragon took a step forward and roared. Syleris’s blood went cold at the sight of that huge maw stained with gore and human flesh.

"Call the Dalish, and let us finish this," Wynne said. Her voice was steely with determination, and it broke the other three from their sick reverie.

Alistair brought the horn to his lips and blew a loud, clear blast. Then the four charged forward, Alistair roaring like a wild beast as he threw himself at the dragon and whacked its head away with his shield. Syleris could hear multitudes of booted feet surrounding them and spared a moment from trying to find the archdemon’s weak spot to ensure they belonged to friends and not foes. Relief coursed through her as she saw the company of Dalish archers form a ring around the archdemon and start firing.

The fight was, in a word, brutal. It required every skill she possessed to avoid the archdemon’s thrashing tail and flailing, spiked wings. Arrows rained around the melee fighters, and occasionally she could feel the soothing spark of Wynne’s magic caressing her skin and bolstering her resolve. A roar caught her attention and she jerked her head to the side, mouth opening in an “o” of despair as she saw a thick wave of darkspawn pour onto the rooftop. The break in her concentration cost her dearly as suddenly the dragon’s thick wing slammed into her body and sent her flying across the stone. She fought to catch her breath as she lay on her stomach, one arm bent at the elbow to try to keep her face from connecting with the bloody stones. Her daggers were a short distance from her, but running ever closer was the darkspawn horde.

"The darkspawn! Get the darkspawn!" Zevran’s voice cut through the fog of horror clouding her thoughts. There was a skittering of metal on stone before her daggers appeared before her and blades clashed together a foot above her head. "A little help, beautiful?" Zevran quipped as he drove his dagger into the darkspawn’s neck and shoved it backwards. Warmth spread through her body and eased the pain of what she was sure were broken ribs, and a moment later she was on her feet again and running with Zevran side-by-side back to the archdemon.

They fought with renewed vigor among the chaos. The Dalish were focusing on picking the darkspawn off one by one as the four heroes fought with everything they had to down the archdemon. The dragon’s movements were becoming sluggish and erratic and its armored hide was bleeding in hundreds of places. The weaker it got, the more ferocious Syleris and her companions fought against it. At last, with a hideous roar of desperation, it reared back, sending the heroes staggering backwards. Arrows whizzed past their heads and stuck into the dragon’s hide. The four stood at the ready, ever prepared for more fighting, before the archdemon slumped forward and lay, panting and quivering, on the stone.

"This is it," Alistair said in a low voice, echoing the thoughts in Syrelis’s head. They gave each other a knowing look before Alistair turned to face her, pulling his helm off and holding it under one arm. "Wait, let me. I know you told Riordan that you would take the final blow. There’s no need for you to die. This is my duty. I should be the one to kill it."

"What?" Syrelis exclaimed. "Alistair, you’re going to be king. Why would you sacrifice yourself?"

"Sacrifice yourself?" Zevran echoed with confusion – but for the moment, he was ignored.

Alistair continued. "Yes, I’m going to be a king. And I want to be a good king. This right here is the best king that I could be, my first and final act being to stop the Blight before it really starts. I don’t think anyone could blame me for that, could they?"

"Could someone please expl—"

Zevran was again cut off by Syleris’s angry retort. "That’s the coward’s way out and you know it, Alistair!" she snarled. Checking her temper at the templar’s hurt look, she continued in a softened tone. "You’re going to be a good king, Alistair."

"Really? Because I think I’m going to be a piss-poor king—"

"And," Syleris continued as if he hadn’t spoke, "I can’t let you do this. I’m sorry. When Duncan brought me to Ostagar from Denerim I was angry and full of a lust for vengeance. Joining the Grey Wardens was strictly an act of convenience to keep me out of jail for murder. I saw the pig who raped my cousin in every human man, and I took it out on every human I met. Duncan, you, the other recruits. Hell, I even sassed the king when I met him.

"But you didn’t give up. You showed me that not every human is vile and cruel. You taught me what being a Grey Warden truly is, and now I will live up to that title. It has been an honor." Syleris saluted crisply, ignoring the tug in her stomach as she turned away from Alistair to where Zevran was looking not a little put out.

" _Now_ would you like to explain what’s going on, or shall we chat until the archdemon regains its senses?" he snapped.

Syleris stepped forward until there were scant inches between them and lifted a hand to his bloodied cheek, swiping her thumb through the blood across his cheekbone. "I’m sorry I didn’t tell you," she said, her eyes boring into his. Dropping her hand to the small pouch at her side, she dug around until she pulled forth the small, beautiful earring he had given her at camp. Lifting it to her mouth, she kissed the stone before pressing it into his hand. No other words were spoken before she threw herself at him, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders as she kissed him fiercely. When she broke away she could see the pain in his eyes, but she was secretly grateful at the coy smile that crossed his lips, so reminiscent of all their days together.

Glancing over at Wynne, she felt a slight sense of peace. The elder mage smiled calmly at her before squeezing her shoulder. "For the Grey Wardens," Wynne said softly.

And that was it. Something snapped inside Syleris, and she knew the time was now. "For the Grey Wardens!" she bellowed. Without a backwards glance she ran forward, yanking a sword from the corpse of a Dalish soldier as she ran. The archdemon was coming back to its senses, its vast head swerving on its long neck. As it arched its head to the sky and roared, Syleris dropped to a crouch, leather boots sliding across stone as she held the sword poised above her head. It sliced through the dragon’s armor without resistance and blood rained down upon the elf. She managed to dart out from beneath the behemoth before it fell again, but just barely.

She allowed herself only one look at her companions: the man who had taught her forgiveness and honor, the woman who had been as a mother to her, and the elf who had taught her to love. She smiled genuinely at them, nodding once, and then with a loud cry of effort she swung the sword over her head and plunged it into the archdemon’s head.

It was as if the whole world slowed down. She could hear the dragon’s anguished death roar, feel the way its head thrashed beneath her, but she knew she held fast to the sword pinning it down. And yet while she stood there, she was also back at the Alienage, enjoying a late dinner with her proud, smiling father who told her how much she reminded him of her mother. She was just getting out of bed, laughing with Shianni and Soril as they fought to get her into her wedding clothes. She was with Zevran, losing herself in the rhythm of body and body, knowing she loved him but never saying it. She was standing at Lake Calenhad, speaking in low tones with Wynne about her fears that she would not live up to what the Grey Wardens expected of her. She was drunk as hell with Oghren, telling saucy tales that made poor Alistair blush to the tips of his ears. She was sitting by the fire with Leliana, listening to the sweet music the bard sang. She was clapping Sten on the shoulder and laughing as he proclaimed yet again that there was no way she could be a woman. She was handing Flemeth’s grimoire to Morrigan and smiling as the woman called her a true friend. She was walking to the camp at Ostagar with Duncan, peppering him with questions about the Grey Wardens.

Scenes and words and feelings swept through her in what felt like an instant. Light poured from the sword, spilling over her hands before climbing up her arms and engulfing her whole body. Still she clung to the sword’s hilt, even as she felt the burning in her chest that was the archdemon trying to escape. Her body convulsed wildly as it struggled with the archdemon’s essence. A scream ripped from her throat and then her body fell lifeless to the stones.

 **...**

Her body, cleaned of the gory mess it had been, was clad in the supple leather armor she had worn during the final battle and lay on an ornately carved cement monument. Her hair was neatly brushed, arms were folded over her stomach, eyes were closed as if she were in repose. Indeed, as Zevran stood in the crowd, barely noticing Leliana’s hand on his shoulder, he would almost swear that Syleris was going to sit up and laugh at them all for being so very serious.  
One could hope, hopeless as one was.

Alistair stood next to her, his golden armor gleaming in the fading sunlight. "My friends. We are gathered here to pay our respects to the Grey Warden that saved us all. She gave her life to destroy the Blight, a sacrifice we must never forget. It was no accident that she was there, either. She was special, and each of us had our life touched by her in some way. Some of us were friends, companions... some of us even loved her."

Leliana’s hand tightened on Zevran’s shoulder, but he paid no notice. He felt vaguely like he would be ill, as if someone were stirring around his innards unpleasantly. But, were one to look at him, he would seem completely composed.

"She even put me on this throne, despite my protests. But there was no telling her no, right?" Alistair paused, looking down at Syleris’s peaceful face, and forced himself to continue past the lump in his throat. "The Grey Wardens couldn’t have asked for anyone finer. How do you properly honor someone like that? The Grey Wardens are building a magnificent tomb at Weisshaupt, right next to Garahel’s, but I’d like to do something as well."

Zevran watched dully as Syleris’s father was called forth and granted a seat at the Landsmeet. The old elf with his cheeks streaked with tears looked as bereft as Zevran felt. Despite as much as he was going over the old Antivan Crows litany in his head – feel no emotion, emotion makes you weak – he knew that the loss of Syleris would leave an everlasting hole in his hardened heart.

"Friends, let us hope she has gone on to a better place and that she knows how thankful we are for what she has done here." Alistair glanced down at Syleris’s body, his mouth drawn into a thin line of grief. In a softened voice he said, "You will be missed, my friend."

And she would.


End file.
